


when the beating of your heart echoes

by returnsandreturns



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, M/M, Work In Progress, mostly banter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:50:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And did they also offer you a small fortune to abandon your ideals and home?” Karen asks. </p><p>“No, but I was informed that they would be doing so to the owner of my building,” Matt says. “A Mr. Franklin Nelson.”  </p><p>“That dude sounds like a douchebag,” Foggy says. “Who could be easily swayed to sell out and move to a small townhouse in Brooklyn and finally become a free range, grass fed butcher for affluent young hipsters, like his mom always wanted.”</p><p>(In which Foggy and Karen run a used bookstore, Matt's the handsome lawyer with the firm upstairs, and nobody wants Hell's Kitchen to turn into Times Square.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS ORIGINALLY SUPPOSED TO BE A SHORT CUTE FICLET ABOUT FOGGY ORDERING BRAILLE NOVELS FOR MATT AND IT SPUN WILDLY OUT OF HAND. Who knows where it's going next! I only sort of do, but I'm anticipating one or two more chapters in all, because I have 100 other things to write. This is just kind of a prologue-y taste of what could be.

It’s been three hours since they’ve opened and nobody has come into the store. One hour in, Karen had moaned, “eBooks and television are ruining the world and we’re going to _starve to death_ ,” and descended into the back room to go over the delivery schedule for new books.  They’ve only recently started buying new books at all, just the mega-famous hits that will keep them afloat, almost immediately after fourteen people in a row called to ask them if they could preorder the new Harper Lee back in July. Eventually, Foggy started concisely stating, “We are choosing not to stock the book due to the questionable legal and ethical implications of its publication. And, also, because _we’re a used bookstore,”_ before hanging up.

Foggy’s halfway through a reread of _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ when the bell on the door rings.

“WAS THAT A CUSTOMER,” Karen yells from the back. Foggy glances up.

“NO, IT’S JUST MATT,” he yells back.

Distantly, there’s the sound of something hitting the desk and Karen groaning, “ _Fuck_.”

Matt smiles serenely at Foggy, saying, as he sits his cane against the wall by the door, “It’s wonderful to see you both, too.”  

“Sorry, man, we’re having a slow morning,” Foggy says. “And, also, like, year. And possibly existence. And maybe we’re going to have to start burning down public libraries to eliminate competition.”

“Is it really library arson bad?” Matt asks, sliding his hand along the counter as he walks to lean against it. Foggy reaches out to brush his fingers over his knuckles in greeting and Matt turns his hand enough to squeeze Foggy’s, once, quickly. He felt weird, at first, that Matt couldn’t see him smiling at him—Foggy has a really charming smile, after all—so, instead, they’ve started to touch in absolutely normal ways that Foggy would touch any of his favorite customers. Luckily he only has one.

“Unless we can somehow take Amazon down from the inside, maybe,” he replies. Karen slouches back into the room, nudging Matt with her shoulder as she walks past him to boost herself onto the counter.

“What do you know about corporate espionage, Murdock?” she asks.

“Probably more than you two,” Matt says, “because of the law degree. And I don’t think it’s your best bet for survival in this situation.”

“What’s our best bet? Getting law degrees?” Karen asks. “Because we’re already _in_ a tragic amount of debt, so I don’t think that will help us.”

“Unless we can get law degrees and then sue the internet for making us sad,” Foggy says. “Can we sue the internet, Matt?”

“If you could, I could just represent you and you wouldn’t even need law degrees,” Matt offers. “But you can’t.”

“I bet we’d win against the internet if Matt was representing us,” Foggy continues, ignoring him to turn to Karen, who nods agreeably.

“Absolutely,” she says. “He’s the finest lawyer on the block.”

“I am the only lawyer on the block,” Matt says, laughing. Karen shrugs.

“She shrugged,” Foggy says, delighted.

“Damn it,” Karen mutters. “I’m off my game.”

She throws her legs over the other side of the counter and drops down beside Foggy, going to pour a cup of coffee. She presses the chipped mug into Matt’s hand, and he thanks her but doesn’t drink it.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” Foggy says. “Karen didn’t make the coffee.”

“Well then,” Karen says, rolling her eyes. “I’m going back to stare at our spreadsheets until they balance themselves out. You boys try to think of some way to save our asses that doesn’t involve a felony.”

Matt smiles brightly at Foggy over the rim of the mug.

“I could probably get you out of a misdemeanor charge, if it came down to it,” he says.

“Finest lawyer in the building,” Foggy replies, patting him on the arm.

 

*

 

The offer comes in a nice thick envelope. Foggy hasn’t seen an envelope this nice since his acceptance to Columbia for undergrad, creamy white and stamped on the front: _Union Allied Construction_. It’s folded and shoved into their mailbox along with a stack of bills that they’ve been pretty effectively avoiding paying this month.

“They want to buy my store,” Foggy says, slowly.

“Your store?” Karen asks, pointedly.

“. . .our store,” Foggy corrects himself. When Karen’s face doesn’t change, he adds: “Your store? I don’t know what you want from me here, but if I’m reading this right, they’re trying to buy out the whole block.”

Karen snatches the letter from it, scanning it quickly.

“Community revitalization,” she says, making a face. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Revitalizing the community by replacing the community with luxury condos and high end retailers,” Foggy says. “They probably want to bulldoze us and build an Apple store.”  

“. . .Foggy, did you see what they’re offering for relocation,” Karen whispers hoarsely. She holds the letter up slowly, finger pointing out a number. A very large number. An almost _comically_ large number.

“Jesus Christ, they’re offering money,” he says, whistling low.

“But we can’t be bought, right?”

“You can’t be bought, maybe,” Foggy says. “You certainly sound like you can’t be bought. Me, I could be bought for the interest on that.”

“Foggy Nelson, you’d give up this store and let these. . .these _assholes_ take Hell’s Kitchen and turn it into _Time’s Square_?”

“Money, Karen,” he says, not entirely sure that he’s actually joking, and Karen scoffs, but her tirade is interrupted by Matt slamming into the store. The bell rings erratically, and he looks _pissed,_ cane tapping an angry beat on their already scratched wood floors.

“I just finished meeting with a group of elderly women who were threatened by their landlord to vacate their homes to make room for a new hotel,” he says, voice eerily calm. That’s the kind of voice that means Matt’s about to go full Atticus Finch on all their asses and fuck them up to the fullest extent that the law will allow. Foggy loves that voice. He thinks about it sometimes, when he’s alone at night.

“And, then,” Matt continues, almost serene as he pulls an identical envelope from his bag, “I checked my mail to find this.”

“Did they write it in braille?’ Karen asks.  

“They did,” Matt says. “They’re thorough.”

“And did they also offer you a small fortune to abandon your ideals and home?” Karen asks.

“No, but I was informed that they would be doing so to the owner of my building,” Matt says. “A Mr. Franklin Nelson.”  

“That dude sounds like a douchebag,” Foggy says. “Who could be easily swayed to sell out and move to a small townhouse in Brooklyn and finally become a free range, grass fed butcher for affluent young hipsters, like his mom always wanted.”

“You’re not—you’re not actually thinking of taking their money, are you?” Matt asks. One of his hands flexes uselessly in the air, an abortive gesture like maybe he’s going to touch Foggy but decides against it. Foggy makes a small strangled noise and wraps his fingers around Matt’s wrist, holding it gently.

“ _Money_ , Matt,” he says, in a small voice.

“ _Blood money_ ,” Karen mutters, sliding down to sit on the floor in front of the counter. Her face is stormy and beautiful. Matt gestures agreeably towards her; his face is also stormy and beautiful.

“Blood money,” Matt repeats.

“The thing is that we have _no_ money,” Foggy says, “blood or otherwise.”

“I will die, Foggy Nelson,” Karen says, eyes wide, “before we let them take this place and turn it into a Whole Foods or, or a chocolate milk bar or _anything ironic_.”

“Karen will die,” Matt repeats.

“This isn’t _Les Miserables_ , guys,” Foggy groans, slowly lowering his head to rest it against the countertop. Matt drops a hand on his head, smoothing out his hair.

“It’s your grandmother’s legacy, Foggy,” he says.

“And her grandmother’s before that,” Karen adds, a little too grandly, especially because it isn’t even true. Nana Nelson bought this place as a late in life passion in 1996. Foggy’s old enough to remember when it was still an adult video store. They’re constantly finding VHS porn in weird places, like the ceiling tiles in the bathroom– it’s a fun game at this point.

Matt runs his fingers over Foggy’s scalp in little zig zag patterns and Foggy groans again.

“ _Fine,_ ” he says.

“Fine?” Matt asks.

“Fine,” Foggy repeats, sitting up and waving a hand vaguely in the air. “ _Viva la Revolution.”_

Karen grins up at him from the floor, her hair a messy halo around her face in the flickering light they’ve needed to change for weeks.

“Knew you’d come around,” she says.

“What can I say?” Foggy says. “When hot people tell me to do something, I do it. And look, there’s two of you. Just being hot and having strong ideals, in my general presence. . .I had no chance.”

“Hey. . .maybe we should exploit that hot factor and put Matt’s face on our ads,” Karen says, speculatively. She gets to her feet to get a closer look at Matt, who takes an automatic step back towards the door.  

“You both have lovely exploitable faces of your own,” he says.

“You don’t know that,” Foggy says. “We could be hideous monsters. I could be lying to Karen about how hot she is just to make her feel better about the train wreck that is her face.”

Karen says, making a frame with her hands and holding it up near Matt, “He’s not, I’m a catch. And _you_ would look great on our Facebook.”

“Oh, hey, I just remembered that I have a very important. . .lawyer thing to do,” Matt says, turning and grabbing his cane in one surprisingly smooth motion.

“Come back here and let us commodify your beauty, Murdock!” Foggy yells after him, but he’s probably already headed upstairs. For a blind dude, Matt’s nimble as hell sometimes.

Karen is smiling at him when he looks back over at her, and, before he can say anything, she leans over the counter to kiss him on the cheek. He shakes his head at her.

“You’re not going to look so happy when we’re having to sell our bodies to pay for the utilities.”

“As long as we’re doing it together,” she replies, sweetly. “Nelson and Page.”

“Page and Nelson,” he says. “God, we really should get law degrees.”

“Plan B,” she agrees. “Once we’re too old to sell our bodies.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably expect a few erratic small updates throughout this month, eventually coming to some type of conclusion! I never update WIPs because I lose the will to write them once I post them, but I'm feeling this story in my bones.

Nothing happens for two whole weeks. They get a few customers, Foggy pays the minimum on his credit card bill, and Karen spends most of her time upstairs helping Matt build his case against the landlord of the apartment building down the street—the case that could definitely disrupt whatever Union Allied is planning, if only a little bit. Foggy brings them coffee and listens to Karen speak to the tenants in soft, patient Spanish.

Then, on a chilly Saturday morning, Foggy shows up to open the store to find Matt outside with a couple of cops and their front window shattered on the sidewalk.

“I was just about to call you,” Matt says. He immediately puts a hand on Foggy’s arm, like he’s saying hello, but Foggy thinks he might just be steadying himself. His face is tense.

“What the living hell,” Foggy says.

“Brick through my window,” Matt explains, gesturing vaguely up where Foggy can see that his practice’s window is shattered, as well. “Pretty sure once you let us in, they’ll find a matching one in your store.”

“. . .the _living hell,”_ Foggy repeats, shakily, but he goes to open the door before the police start to question him. He stands outside by Matt and watches as they walk around inside, glass grinding under their thick rubber soles. 

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“Isn’t it a breach of the Americans with Disabilities Act to throw a brick through a blind man’s window?” Foggy asks, faintly, and Matt huffs out a soft laugh.

“Not exactly what the ADA was about,” he says, “but. . .it _is_ definitely illegal to intimidate people into a business contract with force or threat of force.”

“You really think it was—what’s their name—Evil Incorporated?” Foggy asks.

“Union Allied. And yes, I really do,” Matt says, darkly, “I mentioned it to the cops and they said they’d look into it.”

Matt doesn’t sound as if he has any particular amount of faith in New York’s finest.

“I should call Karen, she’s going to have a heart attack.” Foggy fumbles for his phone. “Oh god, then she’s going to _murder someone_. Maybe I should lie and tell her to take the day off.”

“She’ll know you’re lying,” Matt says.

“Uhm, excuse me? I’m an excellent liar,” Foggy says. “A master of subterfuge.”

“I literally just won six months of free rent from you in a poker game last month,” Matt says.

“That’s not because I’m bad at lying, that’s because you’re a confusingly brilliant card shark for someone who can’t see poker faces.” Foggy kind of shuffles closer to Matt, so their shoulders brush, letting out a soft breath when Matt leans into him. After a few moments, he adds, quietly, “You’re going to pay that rent anyway, right?”

“Of course,” Matt says.

“You’re a saint, buddy,” Foggy replies.

“I’m really not,” Matt says, wryly. “But somebody has to keep Karen and you in the lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed.”

“One ply toilet paper and ramen,” Foggy agrees. “And _windows_ , apparently.”

“Go talk to the police,” Matt suggests, nudging him forward. “I’ll call Karen and break it to her as gently as possible, maybe prevent a homicide. Oh—and be sure to show them the letter from Union Allied.”

“Good thing we didn’t symbolically burn it and dance on its ashes like Karen wanted to do,” Foggy says.

“Karen?” Matt asks, skeptically, lips turned up at the corners.

“Okay, like _I_ wanted to,” Foggy admits, and his heart flutters a little when Matt smiles again. So basically everything is normal, even with cops and broken glass everywhere. Foggy’s crush on Matt is both pathetic and reliable.

“Mr. Nelson?” a cop asks, from the doorway, and Foggy sighs deeply before going over to give them his statement.

 

*

 

"I brought booze and saran wrap," Karen says, holding up bottles of bottom shelf tequila and rum that's she clutching in one hand and a box of plastic wrap in the other. "Because you bought our building insurance policy from a guy in a van, so I guess our window's not getting fixed for awhile."

"A guy in a van?" Matt asks, horrified.

"It was before I knew you," Foggy says. "I didn't know any better."

"He knew better, he's just cheap," Karen says, sitting the bottles down on the desk so they clink together aggressively.

"You mean poor," Foggy corrects her. "I'm poor."

"You can't be van insurance poor," Matt says.

Karen drops down on the arm of Foggy's chair, snaking an arm around his shoulder. They've pulled up some of the arm chairs from the back so they can stare sadly at the broken window, for lack of anything better to do about it. Foggy wrote a sign to hang on the door: _Please ignore our gaping hole and fill the one in your soul with gently used books_. Matt said it was poetic.

"I am used bookstore owner in a recession poor," Foggy says. He leans his head against Karen's side, gazing up at her suspiciously. "And you're very calm."

"I screamed a bunch and kicked over my potted plant earlier," she replies, mildly. "Besides, I've decided as of about twenty minutes ago to start burying my anger deep inside so I can avoid dealing with it until my mid-forties."

"Solid plan," Matt says. "Did you say something about alcohol?"

"You know, you’ve really got your priorities straight, Matthew," Karen says, hopping back up to pull out the coffee mugs from behind the desk. Foggy turns around in his chair to watch as she tips an arguably regrettable amount of tequila into three of them. She pauses for a second before making a _humph_ noise and adding in the same amount of rum.

"To us," she says, once they all have a mug in their hands to toast with.

"May we have real windows before winter comes,” Foggy says, “and no more vandalism shenanigans.”

“Here, here,” Matt murmurs then knocks back half his mug in one go. Foggy watches in admiration. He’s casually drank with Matt before, beer after hours or the couple of times they’ve managed to catch Matt at night and drag him to Josie’s, but he’s never seen Matt drink that much liquor in one go. He pulls a pretty hilarious face afterwards, but it’s still impressive.

Karen matches him drink for drink. Foggy sips because he doesn’t have a death wish, and, also, somebody has to be sober enough to use duct tape when they saran wrap the window later.

 

*

 

Sometime after 2 AM, their window is horribly repaired, Karen has duct tape in her hair, and Matt is laying on his back on the floor that probably still has glass shards on it. Foggy, who is the least drunk by a wide margin, is carefully trying to get the tape out of Karen’s hair while she makes sad noises at him.

When he’s finished, he says, “You’re free,” and she nods gravely.

“Thank you,” she says, patting him on the face. “Now, I’d like to go to sleep immediately, right this very second.”

“Back office couch?” he asks.

"I can't sleep here," Karen says, then starts giggling. "Because we don't have a _window_ anymore."

"True," Foggy says. "Very true. Unsafe. You sit tight while I make sure Matt gets upstairs without dying, and then we'll get a cab."

"I can get myself upstairs," Matt says, but it's not very convincing, because he's still lying on the floor. His glasses are folded and sitting next to him, and his eyes are open and wide and _so pretty_ , even though they’re completely bloodshot.

"I'm sure you can," Foggy says, gently nudging Matt with his foot. Matt turns away from it, curling in on himself and moaning. Foggy scoffs, leaning down to touch Matt’s hand. “Okay, drama queen, let’s get you to your terrible nightmare couch upstairs.”

Matt accepts the hand that Foggy offers him, but he’s actual dead weight. It takes all of Foggy’s strength to finally get him to his feet, and then he immediately falls into Foggy’s arms, all loose warm limbs.

“Think you can walk?” Foggy asks.

“I can do a lot of things,” Matt says, standing up a little straighter when Foggy wraps an arm around his waist and starts to lead him towards the door.

“Don’t wander away!” he calls to Karen, over his shoulder, and she makes a vague affirmative noise from where she’s kneeling on the armchair, turned to the back of it so she can wrap her arms around it and bury her face in it. Foggy is sure that she’ll be asleep by the time that he gets back, because drunk Karen can sleep anywhere. Bar booths, the backs of cabs, most notably Central Park once— _anywhere_.

Matt, based on the dark circles under his eyes, is not so gifted in the sleep department.

At the top of the stairs, Foggy’s about to ask Matt for his key when Matt shifts and grabs Foggy’s shoulders tightly.

“Foggy,” he says, voice serious and intent.

“Matt,” Foggy replies, imitating him.

“I need you to know that I’m going to make sure that Karen and you are safe, Foggy,” Matt continues. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Oh—okay,” Foggy says, slowly. “Thanks, man.”

“Really,” Matt says, a little desperately, “I’m going to fix everything.”

“Sure, Matt, you’re going to save us all with the power of truth and justice and the law,” Foggy says, soothingly, even though he’s not sure that Matt’s even talking about his case. “Now, let’s get you inside so you can throw up all your mistakes.”

Matt looks pained and earnest, but he fishes out his keys to give to Foggy and lets himself be led inside. He collapses on the couch while Foggy bustles around and finds a blanket in the storage closet. He covers Matt with it and starts to say good night, but Matt’s already asleep, face pressed into a decorative throw pillow and hair standing on end. Foggy takes a picture because he can’t stop himself, and, besides, who knows when he’ll need to blackmail Matt in the future.

He sits out a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water on the end table and leaves as quietly as possible to make sure Karen didn’t die while they were gone.

 

*

 

A week later, Foggy comes in bright and early to find an angry Russian tied up on his doorstep with an unlit Molotov cocktail a few feet away from him. Foggy knows that the guy’s Russian because, when he takes the balled up t-shirt out of his mouth, he violently yells at him in Russian. Also: Molotov cocktail.

When the police come, they check the footage from the bank across the street and see the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen jumping out of the shadows and taking this guy down with three punches before he can throw the bottle through their patched up window. Foggy and Karen watch the footage on the ten o’clock news, gaping at each other silently every few seconds even though they already watched it at the precinct.

Eventually, after Karen has played the footage about fourteen times, Foggy says, “Hey, do you think this is going to help business?”

Karen says, “Hmm.”

“Like, on the one hand, this guy’s got to have groupies who scope out his haunts and stuff,” Foggy says. “Look at that ass.”

“Right, but, also, ass or no, who wants to go to a bookstore where they could get possibly get burned alive by the Russian mob,” Karen agrees.

That night, they post _Devil’s Special: Buy One Book, Get One Free, all week long! Don't worry, we probably won’t be on fire!_ on their Facebook. Might as well take advantage of the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be detectivekatebishop on Tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You here, Murdock?” he calls. “Y’know, your back’s going to go full Quasimodo one day if you keep sleeping at your desk and then you’ll only have your intelligence and charm and pretty face and fancy degree to fall back on.” 
> 
> There’s no answer but there is a low, pained moan. Foggy follows the source of it, expecting a hungover Matt on the sofa again.
> 
> “Did you drink without us—shit.”
> 
> What he actually finds is a bleeding vigilante on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a little bit more! Writing is hard when combined with adult responsibilities, y'all.

The first thing that Karen says when Foggy walks into the store is, "We're viral video sensations."

"Did you sleep at all?" Foggy asks, then, after Karen hands him her phone, which is playing the clip of her talking about their shop and what it feels like to be under the protection of the infamous Devil, "This has fifty views. You know being on YouTube isn't the same thing as going viral, right?"

“Close enough,” Karen says, narrowing her eyes at him, “and of course I haven’t been sleeping. There was fire near the books like three days ago. _Fire_ , Foggy.”

“Technically only the potential for fire,” Foggy says. “Pre-fire, really.”

“Fire,” Karen repeats, slowly. “Near _the books_.”

“Okay, fine, we nearly got _Fahrenheit 451_ ’d,” he concedes. “I at least went home to have nightmares, though. I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”

“I dropped by to shower and change,” Karen says, turning away with the pretense of fussing with the coffee pot but probably just to hide how tired she looks. “I’m fine.”

“If people are going to be throwing flammable objects through our windows during the night, I’d really rather you weren’t in the store when it happened,” Foggy says. “If we didn’t need to capitalize on this fifteen minutes of fame to keep our lights on, we should probably close up while the police are investigating.”

“I’m actually surprised Matt hasn’t come down to lecture us about that already,” Karen says, then she stops, turning back to Foggy with a frown. “You know, I actually haven’t seen Matt come in at all and I’ve been here reorganizing the romance novels by steaminess since 3 A.M.”

Foggy makes a face at her.

“We’ll come back to that second thing later,” he says. “I’m going to go see if he slept in the office again.” 

*

Matt doesn’t answer the door when Foggy knocks, but the door is already kind of ajar. Foggy knocks because he’s a gentleman at heart, but when nobody answers, he assumes he probably has some type of combined landlord/friend rights that allow him to just go inside.

“You here, Murdock?” he calls. “Y’know, your back’s going to go full Quasimodo one day if you keep sleeping at your desk and then you’ll only have your intelligence and charm and pretty face and fancy degree to fall back on.”

There’s no answer but there is a low, pained moan. Foggy follows the source of it, expecting a hungover Matt on the sofa again.

“Did you drink without us— _shit_.”

What he actually finds is a bleeding vigilante on the floor.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, straight from the grainy security footage with the mask and flattering black outfit and all, is currently sprawled in the middle of Matt’s law office, possibly bleeding out. Foggy freezes for a moment before he slowly drops down to the floor next to him, hesitating over touching him. He’s got a nice face under all the blood, which is probably something that Foggy shouldn’t be noticing because right, _blood_ , but there’s something familiar about it.

It clicks before Foggy pulls back the mask, but he does it anyway.

“ _Matt_ ,” he says. Matt’s eyes are screwed shut, but he’s awake.  

“Hey, Foggy,” Matt mumbles.

A panicked laugh tumbles out of Foggy before he can stop it.

“Hi, Matt,” he says, pretending to be calm in the hopes that it will somehow make it true. “I’m going to need you to tell me a story later, but right now I’m going to call an ambulance and also look up how to get blood stains out of carpet, otherwise you’re totally going to lose your security deposit.”

“I think my landlord will understand,” Matt gasps. “And don’t—don’t call an ambulance.”

“Don’t call an ambulance,” Foggy says, already dialing his phone, “says the person with apparent stab wounds.”

Before he knows it’s happening, Matt’s snatched the phone out of his hand and slid it across the room. He makes a high-pitched noise like probably he’s making his injuries worse, but he stays sitting up to grab Foggy’s arm and hold on.

“Please,” he says. “I can’t go to the hospital like this, but I can call someone—a friend, a nurse, to help me.”

Matt winces as he digs in his pocket, twisting a little too much so that he falls back against the ground with a sharp intake of breath. He lays there for a second and Foggy almost goes to get his phone and ignore Matt’s request when Matt whispers, “Please just call C,” and passes out.

Foggy shakily fishes an old flip phone out of Matt’s pocket. There’s only one contact, just one letter. He whispers, “Fucking _fuck_ ,” and dials.

*

Claire is beautiful and calm and frighteningly competent at stitching up Matt.

“Come here often?” Foggy asks, while she’s cutting Matt’s shirt open to get at the worst of the wounds, and Claire lets out a harsh laugh.

“A little too often,” she says. “Your friend here’s got the survival instincts of a toddler.”

“Always sticking his finger in light sockets?” Foggy asks.

“Metaphorically,” Claire says. “If that light socket were the Russian mob.”

“Oh,” Foggy says.

He thinks the pretending to be calm thing might actually be working, but he’s also considering the fact that it might just be hysteria deeply setting in. Matt wakes up in the middle of Claire stitching up a cut running deep in his shoulder, gasping for breath around the pain.

“He lives,” Claire says, fondly.

“Foggy,” Matt says, voice wrecked. “Is he—“

“Right here, buddy,” Foggy says, softly. Matt smiles a flickering, grateful smile that makes Foggy’s heart contort uncomfortably. There’s blood on his teeth. Foggy doesn’t know if he wants to throw up or yell at him for getting himself hurt or kiss him, so he decides to do none of those things.

“I have to go talk to Karen,” he says, abruptly. “I’ll be back.”

Matt’s smile falls away into a grimace as Claire tugs at the last stitch.

“Don’t tell her,” Matt grits out. “I don’t want to get her involved. I didn’t want either of you to get involved.”

Foggy looks at him for a long moment. He’s never thought of Matt as small, but he looks it now, half-dressed and curled in on himself on his uncomfortable sofa.

“Okay,” Foggy says, eventually. “I won’t.”

*

“What took you so long?” Karen asks lazily, without looking up. “Did you two finally fuck or something?”

When Foggy doesn’t answer, Karen looks up and her eyes widen.

“Whoa,” she says. “Did you _actually_ fuck?”

“No,” Foggy says, shaking his head. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re all flushed and disheveled and weird,” Karen replies, gesturing vaguely at him. “What else were you doing alone upstairs with Matt? Vigorous calisthenics?”

Foggy doesn’t like lying to Karen. Actually, Foggy _doesn’t_ lie to Karen, basically ever. They’re very, very serious about the best friends thing and along with that comes constant and sometimes brutal honesty. It’s why they work so well together. 

He reaches inside him for a better story but he can't find it.

“. . .okay,” he says, weakly. “We did it.”

Karen’s face lights up.

“Finally!” she crows, hitting the desk with both hands. “Details, right now, give them up.”

_He_ _was bleeding profusely from his abdomen_ , Foggy thinks. _It was so very romantic._

Instead, he lies some more.


End file.
